A Fool's Gamble
by IronEclipse
Summary: "Remain as you are, Èowyn of Rohan. Be what I cannot."
1. Chapter 1

"We went down into the silent garden. Dawn is the time when nothing breathes, the hour of silence. Everything is transfixed, only the light moves."  
~Leonora Carrington

* * *

A Fool's Gamble

Silence was lonely. Èowyn didn't quite know exactly when she had stumbled upon that concept, but she had nevertheless. It had likely been in the midst of a crowd, the kind that was loud and high-spirited, all smiles, handshakes, and brotherly affection. Perhaps it had driven her into a corner. She couldn't completely deal with such nonsense anymore, especially on the precipice of war. The world she had known with all its plains, swaying grasses, and blistering breezes was about to collapse into a pile of burning rubble. It was doubtful that all the pieces could be salvaged once the dust had settled down. Memories would become the only evidence of peace that remained.

So naturally Èowyn had chosen to retreat. She wanted to encase her heart in silence, an all-knowing sense of loneliness and isolation until she couldn't even think straight. She didn't want her chest to ache with longing for something _better_. Indifference would make her stronger.

Still, it came as a surprise when Èowyn entered the infirmary. She found herself starring at Lothìrìel, the crown jewel of Dol Amroth. The lady was an enigma, even in her sickened and ill state. She had thrown Edoras into chaos by arriving in a red hue of blood and disease, somehow perched delicately in her brother's arms. Rumours fled in every direction, many implicating Èomer in some star crossed scheme. Èowyn knew the truth however.

Lothìrìel's stay in Rohan was supposed to be temporary, a visit purely dictated by matters of diplomacy. She was well aware of what that one word, a phase often whispered in hushed tones, meant in families surrounded by the legacies of powerful kings and queens. This princess, a ball of wicked foolishness, was expected to present herself in a manner that would ultimately lead to marriage. Èowyn could not determine Lothìrìel's opinion on the matter; the woman was poised and perfect, the image of cultivated nobility at its finest. She was a picture stone, although the distress of others appeared to quickly pick away at her façade. When villagers close to the Snowbourne called for aid as a result of severe fever, Lothìrìel chose to respond without elicit permission.

Whatever compelled her to do such a thing, Èowyn would never know. When she returned in Èomer's arms only sickness seemed to define her countenance. The stone had transformed into ash. Now she was stuck in the halls of Meduseld inherently facing an unfortunate twist of fate.

The situation only served to frustrate Èowyn to no immediate end. The reason was simple; her fool of a brother had somehow managed to sum up enough emotions to care for Lothìrìel. The changes were subtle, but they were there. A slight curve of the mouth, an outstretched hand, witty remarks and insults—Èomer loved her. She didn't know when these feelings had come to pass, but they were there nevertheless. Èowyn feared for his lack of wisdom and carelessness. There was much to loose in such ill-fated times.

It was odd, but her thoughts appeared to alter something within the air. The shifting of light, maybe a slight brush of fabric—whatever the cause, something clearly changed; one moment Èowyn was gazing at Lothìrìel's sleeping face, the next grey eyes clashed with brown.

"You're awake," Èowyn breathed in disbelief.

The silence was broken.

Lothìrìel's eyes were open, but they remained clouded and hazy with fever. There was an intelligence present however, a sly, morose intellect that sliced through the air like a knife. Èowyn could suddenly recall what one of the kitchen hands had said days in advance; those from Dol Amroth were descended from elves. The ties were old and many lost, but Lothìrìel was the exception. Her presence spoke more loudly than any simple set of words. It lingered in the air like a faint perfume.

"More or less," Lothìrìel said, her voice cracking under strain.

Èowyn winced. "You should not be awake."

"Is that a statement or a wish?"

"My lady—"

"You grieve me."

The declaration was abrupt. It was not meant to illicit offence, but Èowyn felt the fingers of anger slither down her back. "Pardon?"

"I fail to see why you must carry a heavy burden over your heart. War is not yet upon us, but you act as though the battle has been lost."

"You must rest," Èowyn said softly. "Your fever has not yet passed."

Her laughter, more like a series of dry coughs, filled the air. "Must you be so elusive? It is not my intention to cause you harm. I only seek to relieve whatever doubts plague your thoughts."

"And what of your own?"

Brown clashed with grey yet again. The silence returned, tugging at Èowyn's heartstrings until she could barely breathe.

"I expect that you know?"

She blinked, drawing in a quivering gulp of air. "How long have you been awake? Truly?"

"Three days."

"And you thought to tell no one?"

"There was no one to tell."

The statement was sickening. She had said those words so casually, as if they carried no bearing in the world. They simply existed on a plane consumed by the weightlessness of air. It only served to elevate Èowyn's frustration.

"He was with you every day."

"As I said, there was no one to tell."

"My brother remained by your side for hours, my Lady," Èowyn began dryly. "Only his duty to the Mark managed to pull him away. It would appear as though your evaluation of the situation is incorrect."

A smile, the ghost of a grin, appeared along her mouth. "You fail to account for my foolishness."

The fever was certainly playing a role in her madness. "Is that so?"

"What is it you wish to hear from me, fair lady of Rohan? That I take pleasure in ignoring matters of the heart?"

"So you know."

Lothìrìel's eyes softened. "All too well."

It was difficult for Èowyn to even consider accepting what she had said. The look within her gaze, as hazy and foggy as it was, screamed out a declaration bursting with unrequited understanding and emotion. It was pure and untainted from the evils of the world. Her words remained on a distinct platform however, one that was almost seemed to touch the very stars. Before she believed that Lothìrìel's walls had crumbled, but the tailored and well-manicured princess continued to live on.

"I'm only human, Èowyn," she whispered. "Don't think too harshly of me."

"As is he. What right do you have to pretend otherwise?"

Grey conquered over brown. Lothìrìel's eyes slipped shut in submission. "Fear."

"What could possibly terrify you?" Èowyn asked almost impulsively.

There was that smile again. The tired slant of her mouth, the faint glimmer of teeth—although this time it was despondent and entirely consumed by pity. "A sensible question, but I'm uncertain as to whether you'll like the answer."

"I will ask it of you nevertheless."

Her eyes opened once again, the presence of sadness only intensifying until Èowyn could hardly breathe. "That he may die and I shall never live again."

The silence returned with a symphony of confusion and madness. It was not lonely, nor as isolating as Èowyn had expected. It was powerful and only served to drive her innermost values into the ground with a blinding momentum that was impossible to trace. Her turmoil must have been apparent; Lothìrìel's stare softened, her eyes melting into pools of russet brown.

"Must we be so similar?"

"I misjudged you," she finally managed to say.

"From one fool to another, it was rightly done. I can only hope that your worries are now put to rest."

Èowyn's anger had long vanished. Only a deep sense of sorrow remained, the kind that pulled at her strength, levelling her constitution into it was nothing but weariness and regret. "Will you tell Èomer? For his sake?"

"Only if you concede to one request," Lothìrìel said gently, her elf-like gaze continuing to appraise her form as if it were nothing but piece of glass.

"Anything."

"Remain as you are, Èowyn of Rohan. Be what I cannot."


	2. Chapter 2

"What happens when people open their hearts? They get better."  
~Haruki Murami

* * *

He had always been there. Lothìrìel couldn't quite recall a time when he wasn't somewhere in the background, amid the bustle of stringent and infallible routine. He was the wind at her back, the tangles in her hair, the lingering smells of spring—Èomer, the Third Marshal of the Mark, had somehow stitched himself into the very spirit surrounding her life. The needlework was rough; more of a patch rather than a clean line, but was ingrained within her very skin.

It would never go away.

 _He_ would never go away.

She could rip, pull, and tear at the ties all she wanted, cursing his presence as if it were some nameless disease, but he remained, a masculine foe that was neither her enemy nor friend. He was somewhere in the in-between, roaming the no man's land of her thoughts both day and night. Lothìrìel wanted to say that she cared little for him. More than anything, even the sky and all of the stars above, she wished that she could say he was merely a thorn in her side, but that was both a truth and a blatant lie.

Perhaps that was why she had wanted to leave within the cover of night. She didn't plan on going too far—no, she only desired to gaze into a distinguishable span of space instead of a future that could have been. Lothìrìel wanted to look into the distance and finally _breathe_. That wasn't always an option however. War had finally reached Gondor and there was little time for breathing. It was only acceptable to run from place to place, lending a hand rather than a heartbeat or meaningless conversation. So for days, perhaps months on end, Lothìrìel found herself immersed in her duties within the infirmary. She patched up scrapes, cuts, and open wounds; at more than one point she even whispered prayers and wishes for the dead. She had grown accustomed to suffocating on the feelings lodged deep within her throat.

Until now that is.

In a symphony of golden light, a kaleidoscope of blinding colour, Lothìrìel could suddenly breathe again, even if it was for a brief moment in time. He was yelling at a nurse hoarsely, his voice rising up and down in octaves only dedicated to pain and loss, but she couldn't bring herself to look away. After months of chasing her demons and shuddering in the dark, Èomer was a beacon of concentrated light. She refused to look away even for a moment in the fear that he would simply fade from existence.

Somehow, amid the rage and confusion, his eyes managed to land on her frozen figure. Lothìrìel didn't think it was possible, but his gaze softened, the pools of brown holding her in place and planting her feet to the ground. They pulled her in, sucked away her insecurities and trepidation until nothing remained but the jittery and thoughtlessness of youth. In that moment she knew that he had learned to breathe too. That fact itself sent shivers down into each and every one of her toes. Maybe that was why her breath hitched; why her chest began to ache with a sort of longing that made her head spin. Maybe that was why she chose to run.

After months of distractions, diversions, and a whirlwind of activity Lothìrìel's feelings had suddenly caught up with her. It was like an abrupt punch in the gut. All she could possibly do to maintain her composure was turn on one heel and run. The voices in the background, the anger in her heart; it all blurred together into a muddled mess that was indistinguishable. She was accustomed to remaining indifferent, frozen in her pride, but when Èomer waltzed into her life that was simply not an option. He forced her to acknowledge his feelings with every wicked gaze and glance. It was almost unbearable.

Hours later Lothìrìel discovered that his sister had been the root of his distress. Èowyn had somehow concealed herself within the ranks of the Rohirrim, her disguise so clever that even her brother failed to recognize her familiar form. As a result, she found herself defending her hopes, dreams, and brethren in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. From what Lothìrìel had gathered she had almost perished within all of the turmoil and loss. It was Èomer who had found her body. When she saw him last he was calling out for aid. For what, she was uncertain. His sibling was one thing, but the fact that he was now a king was quite another. Comprehending his loss was impossible.

That of course, didn't mean that she could avoid it.

The head nurse had assigned Èowyn to her care. Logically it was the most favourable decision. Lothìrìel was one of the few skilled healers left in Gondor. She maintained a touch that could mend most wounds with ease. That failed to be her true gift however; she was particularly proficient in lessening the weight and burdens concerned with death. Most nurses feared her presence, for those she interacted with seemed to slip away quickly without any agony or suffering. Lothìrìel could only hope that Èowyn would not seek the same fate.

Biting her lip, Lothìrìel reluctantly crept into the expanse of space assigned to Èowyn's care. She was by no means the only individual in the room; there were plenty of other wounded as well, many of which were sprawled across the floor in a bleeding and deadly mess. Still, she was certainly more fortunate than most. Her injuries however were a completely different story. Some great evil had tainted her flesh. Lothìrìel was uncertain as to whether she was truly capable of mending such a wound. That didn't mean that she wouldn't try.

She approached her patient's bed with hesitation, her mind lingering on words and shadows forged in the past. It was odd, but Lothìrìel could not find it in herself to feel even remotely sad or even pensive in regards to the situation at hand. She was only proud. Rather then remain encased within her despair Èowyn had chosen to act. True to her word, she remained loyal to who she was. It brought a small, almost joyful smile to Lothìrìel's face.

In the end, that must have been what had done it.

Without any sort of warning, a hand snaked around her wrist. The grip was far from forgiving; it was brash and rough, callused and warm—it was simply uncomfortable and Lothìrìel could hardly deal with it. It took everything in her not to make some sort of sound indicating distress. Instead she attempted to console her aggressor. Perhaps her strategy may have worked in different time, place, or life. Today, amidst the light of candles and the moaning of men, it was an immense failure. The words she meant to say were stolen from her lips.

"Do you take pleasure from pain, my Lady?"

 _Èomer._

Oh, how she despised the man. There was something in his eyes; a wretched burning that set her emotions on a violent rampage. His gaze spoke more loudly than words ever could and Lothìrìel could do little more than stare back in anger.

"How observant," she managed to say thickly, "I fear that you've discovered the truth. Us healers are merely the bringers of death, all in the name of pain, folly, and misfortune."

"You mistake my meaning."

"Truly? However would I have known? I thank you for your kindness my Lord. I assure you that it will not be forgotten," Lothìrìel snapped, before tugging her wrist from her grasp and returning to the duty at hand.

"You remain as irate as ever."

"With reason," she grumbled, brushing the sleeve of her dress as if she could somehow rid herself of his touch, "not many women can claim to have their honour questioned by that of a king."

Èomer looked at her deeply, as though he could drink her in with a simple glance. He didn't appear to take her comment as an insult, but Lothìrìel knew better than to doubt the sly nature of his rage. It always seemed to arrive with a faint gust of wind, a slight twisting and twirling of the air like incoming storm.

"I don't suppose many women would choose to insult a king," he said, his voice both low and morose.

If there was anything Lothìrìel could appreciate it was his truthfulness. "No, I think not."

"Is that all?"

"I apologize, my Lord, but there are more pressing matters on my mind. As you have so discovered, I take pleasure from studying the ailments of others. I'm certain that your dear sister won't fail to disappoint."

"You take my meaning extraordinarily far," Èomer said darkly. "I would appreciate if you left Èowyn out of this matter."

"Perhaps you should take your own words to heart. I'm not a machine without feelings. Believe it or not I hurt and bleed as strongly as any other man or woman," Lothìrìel managed to spit out while preparing to examine Èowyn's arm.

"It appears as though you act otherwise."

"What are we all but an illusion? You act the gallant king and I the nurse. If we all chose to act in a manner that reflected our innermost thoughts death would surely be the result."

If anything that seemed to bother him the most. "I didn't ask to be a king."

"And I didn't ask to be a healer."

"Then why, pray tell, are you in Gondor?"

"War, my Lord. I'm certain you understand the concept better than most."

He scowled. "If I know anything of war it's that Gondor is not a place to seek refuge. White walls do very little to keep out the evils of the world."

"As do the seas and lands that surround Dol Amroth. There is nowhere left to hide from the horrors of battle. The only choice left is to face our doom. Whether that be foolish or righteous I cannot claim to know."

"You would risk your life in account of your pride?" Èomer said, his eyes glittering with what appeared to be anger. "You would die?"

"It is not a matter of pride. I simply refuse to stand by and do nothing."

" _And die?_ "

Something seemed to break inside Lothìrìel's chest. "I cannot fight. I do not have the skill to wield a sword, bow or axe with ease. Unlike your sister, I'm a shameless coward with helpless hands. This is all I have to offer."

"My sister—"

"Do you condemn her?"

The expression written across his face was the only answer she needed. Grinding her teeth, Lothìrìel turned to face a nearby wall. At the end of the day nearly anything would suffice. She no longer wished to look upon Èomer's face. He was a man filled with trepidation, a sort of loathsome hate that threatened to shatter the calm she managed to construct throughout the recent years.

"If that's the case, perhaps you can come to understand what I feel in regards to you."

"You misunderstand. I do not condemn my sister," he paused to take a deep, quivering breath. "I fear for her life."

It was suddenly difficult to speak. Lothìrìel was irritated before, angry even, but something in Èomer's words struck far too close to home. Again she found herself struggling to string together a sentence appropriate enough for the situation at hand. She may have hated the man, despised his very existence, but there was no running from the fact that she cared for him as well. Her frustration could do little to conceal her passion.

"As do all that must stand idly by."

The look on his face seemed to change in the candlelight. "You reveal much, my Lady."

She nearly choked. "Do not claim to know me."

"I would ask the same of you. I fear that your predisposition to assume the worst of me has placed you in quite a delicate position."

"Is that so?" she managed to whisper.

Èomer appraised her with a small glance. "I never intended to insult your honour as a healer. I simply wished to understand why you refuse to care for others. Is that not a kind of pain?"

Èowyn's words, the promise she asked Lothìrìel to keep, echoed in her head. Suppressing a terrified frown, she cast her glance downwards in an attempt to search for an escape. "It is not the pain I fear."

"Then what is it that troubles you so?"

She met his gaze with all of the honesty and fortitude that her body could possibly contain. It was impossible to say the words, so she didn't bother.

His eyes softened. "My Lady—"

"I have no need for your pity," she stated smoothly, her focus back on Èowyn one again. "Spare it for those who need it the most."

Her heart climbed to her throat when his fingers wrapped around her wrist once again. A shiver tickled her spine and descended to each and every one of her toes. Lothìrìel no longer had the will to push Èomer away, rip his hand from her skin with the underlying assumption that her feelings would be slashed away as well. No, she could barely even move. She was captured within his stare, trapped as though she was some sort of bug locked within a spider's web. There was no room to twist or even turn, attempt to pull and pry her thoughts from the storm of emotions that dominated her head. When a calloused hand slid under her chin Lothìrìel knew that she was lost.

Èomer appraised her with a firm gaze. "I won't offer you pity. There is little that remains."

"Why offer anything in the first place?" Lothìrìel only managed to whisper.

His eyes burned. "With the hope that you will accept what I have to give."

She wanted to look away, but his grip remained ever so gentle upon her face. Her cheeks burned; she could feel the warmth spreading down her neck and across her nose. She wasn't one to blush, even in the best of times, but it appeared as though her composure was broken. She was naked and vulnerable in front of a man that could undo her with one simple glance.

"You will say nothing?" Èomer said, his finger tracing the line of her cheek. There was a hint of a smile, a touch of amusement that even he could not hide, even in a time consumed by sadness.

"I'm a woman of action," she spluttered in an attempt to sound remotely commonplace, "I prefer silence."

When Èomer sighed deeply Lothìrìel thought she was safe, finally free from his questions, implications, and the never-ending suggestive notions that somehow littered his every day dialog. At the end of the day she had never been more wrong. She had attempted to turn away, return to the work that firmly held her place in Gondor, but he wouldn't allow it. With a gentle tug, she fell into his territory, her body smoothly crashing into his own solid form. His lips grazed her cheek before brushing the edges of her mouth. Èomer was not a greedy man, but she could feel the physical boundaries of his restraint slipping as his fingers managed to weave into her hair. There was a desire, a powerful _wanting_ present that she never expected him to have. It plucked at her heartstrings, pulled at her chest until her breath became one with his own. The kiss conveyed his vulnerability just as his presence unravelled her own. There was fear, a dark and brooding terror that seemed to linger with his touch, but there was hope as well— Lothìrìel could feel it tease at her senses, just as Èomer trailed a hand down the length of her back.

When he pulled away she had never felt so alone in her entire life, even in a room filled with so many innocent people. She gazed helplessly at Èomer's face, trying to sum up the courage to even speak. Her fingers twitched, her chest heaved with every breath, her mind screamed; Lothìrìel felt so much and yet could hardly voice a single word. It wasn't unlike her, but never in her life had it ever been so incredibly vexing. Finally managing to sigh, she simply chose to stare at the ground in defeat.

"You claim to be a woman of action and yet do nothing at all?" Èomer said, his voice uncharacteristically weak.

Lothìrìel bit the inside of her cheek, her thoughts doing very little to overpower the lingering sensation of Èomer's kiss. What could she say? How could she even begin to compose her thoughts when her body was still processing the feeling of his touch?

A great disappointment flickered within his eyes. It did not remain however; in moments it was replaced with a façade that mimicked stone. "I apologize, my Lady. It appears as though I have overstepped my boundaries."

The rigidity of his tone was simply too much to deal with. Closing her eyes, Lothìrìel reached out and pulled on the edge of his shirt. If there was one thing she couldn't allow herself to do it was let him leave without saying _something._ She wouldn't allow her life to be defined by cowardice. If she had learned anything from war at all, it was to always remain steadfast and fearless. It was rare that those lessons were actually applied to her every day routine, but she needed the reminder more than anything else at this very moment.

"I can't –" she faltered before focusing on another train of thought. "I…I don't know how to –"

Èomer put a stop to her incessant tugging on his shirt and rested a hand on her shoulder. The disappointment was no longer present within his gaze. It was replaced by a new emotion, one that was unfamiliar, yet not entirely unwelcome anymore. "I know."

The puff of air she released, a declaration of relief at this point, was far from quiet. Still fingering the fabric of his tunic as though it were the only thing keeping her afloat, Lothìrìel finally managed to breathe completely, without the inherent fear that Èomer would disappear once again without saying a final word.

"It may not be much, but I will do all that I possibly can for your sister," she finally said without fail. "I am in her debt."

His eyebrows furrowed briefly, most certainly in a questioning manner, but the subject was never discussed. It didn't need to be. Closing her eyes briefly, allowing the stress from the previous situation leave her body, Lothìrìel took some comfort in the feeling of his palm gliding across her collarbone. It reminded her of the wind and the lingering smells of spring. She had no shadow of a doubt that Èomer was now stitched into the spirit of her life. He was no longer a ghost in the background that haunted her very step. No – he was standing in the foreground, patching her up with needlework that was forever ingrained into her skin.


End file.
